I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.

I offer you the chance to read this sentence.

Told you that you couldn't refuse. Chapter XXIII est arrivé.


As per his usual routine, Rude woke himself at seven-fifteen in the morning.

He got up, subjected himself to a quick cold shower, more to wake himself up than clean himself. With a glance out the window to ensure his bike was still parked behind Tseng's car, which in turn was parked behind the shrouded form of Reno's bike, Rude started exercising.

The upstairs bathroom of Yuffie's house offered little floor space, but it was better than exercising in the room she'd provided him – it was cluttered with ninja memorabilia, with just enough pushed up against a wall and half into the closet for Rude to lay down on the mat and leave his suitcase on the floor.

Rude started with push-ups, five hundred of them. Every fifty he alternated between one of five types: both arms, left arm, right arm, left arm at the elbow, and right arm at the elbow. The first three he did with his knuckles pressed against the ground to keep his fists tough. The latter two had him resting the length of his forearm against the ground, putting all his weight on it, and then thrusting himself up off of it until his knuckles pressed against the floor and his arm was straight. Rude always lowered himself to the floor after a push-up carefully, no relaxing and allowing himself to collapse. That was lazy.

Sit-ups, five hundred. Again Rude had five types: both legs on the ground, left leg straight in the air, right leg straight in the air, both legs straight in the air, and both legs and arms straight. He made sure to touch his upthrust toes for the fifth kind, else there was really no point.

At this point, if he were in his own apartment, Rude would move to the weights and start bench-pressing, followed by curling and a jog-in-place with weights around his ankles. Yuffie obviously didn't store any giant iron barbells or fifty-pound bars, so Rude had opted for something a bit easier – he was on vacation, after all. He danced and weaved around the narrow floor space of the bathroom, feet never both touching the ground at the same time, throwing staccato punches that rocketed out like dark missiles and viciously beat at the air.

He threw about a thousand of these, and then it was seven-forty. Now Rude took a real shower, though still a cold one, and cleaned himself up. He also decided to shave; he'd been getting iron stubble lately, the kind that could probably be used as a killing weapon if you could ever shave it properly.

How Reno got by and remained in good shape without a vigorous morning routine completely puzzled Rude. Between what the redhead ate and drank, both on-duty and off-, he should by all rights be a blimp with a failed liver by now. Not that Rude begrudged his partner his naturally slim frame, though. The bald Turk believed in stockiness over grace. You could float like a butterfly, but if you got swatted you'd sure as hell better be able to stand up to it like a cockroach. Not pretty, but effective.

Eight o'clock. Rude cleared his throat slightly, walked up to the door to Yuffie's room, and slid it open.

He was expecting the two of them to be in bed together, probably curled up. Maybe Reno would be half-in and half-out of the bed, his head on Yuffie's thighs or lap, cover twisted about his shoulders, while his legs lay in disarray outside the sheet.

The first thing that caught his eye, very apparently and immediately, was that in this iteration of their usual morning sloth, there were no clothes involved.

Their normal articles of clothing were strewn about the room, like you saw in post-sex scenes in bad movies as the camera panned up from the floor, up the side of the bed, to reveal the lovers curled up in bed together. They were curled up, all right, spoons-style, though it was Yuffie who was behind Reno and not vice versa. Mercifully enough, they'd had the sense, or at least the luck, to cover themselves modestly with the sheet. It rested just short of their shoulders and wafted slightly as a breeze came in through the open window. Normally Rude hated open windows, as they brought the image of a sniper crouching on a far-off rooftop to his mind, but it fit this tranquil scene like the leather gloves the Turk wore fit his hands.

Visibly regaining his composure, Rude said, "Reno. Yuffie. Eight o'clock."

"Five more minutes," Reno muttered. He rolled over and then woke fully, very fast, when Yuffie shifted and unconsciously took hold of something beneath the sheets. "Holy shit I'm awake."

"Good," Rude deadpanned, stolidly keeping his gaze affixed on the windowsill above the couple's heads. "Get Yuffie up, too. We need to get you a suit."

Reno made a face. "Oh, right. Gotta look proper for the whole Hancho gig tonight. Right. Thanks, partner."

Stepping out adroitly, Rude closed the door behind him, and Reno was left in the airy room with his lover.

His gaze slipped to her tranquil face to find that it had ceased to be tranquil; instead, her grip tightened and an impish smile appeared on her pristine features while her eyes remained closed. "Morning, sugar."

"You can leggo now."

"No fun at all in the morning, are we?" Yuffie let one part of him go and pulled his head towards her own so she could administer a kiss. The redhead responded eagerly, running a hand down her bare shoulder and enjoying the feeling of her silky skin. They disengaged and Yuffie asked, "Sleep well?"

Reno gave her a confused look. "We slept?"

"Figuring how boring last night was, of course."

"Of course." Looking surreptitiously at the door to make sure Rude was really gone, Reno pulled his other hand out from beneath the sheets and, without comment, slipped his wrist out of the handcuff affixed to it. "Though you still haven't explained why you happened to have a pair of these lying around."

"You'd be surprised how many of those I have just lying around," Yuffie replied innocently. "I just pick 'em up off the street, get 'em in the mail, you know."

"Yup. What's for breakfast?"


It was quite a strange sight, parked on the curb in front of Yuffie's house. A beat-up, jet-black convertible that had seen far better days and looked like it had been driven through hell and back, several times. A gleaming stallion of a motorcycle, one that was all smooth lines and chrome finish and deadly concealed weapons. And…

Reno whirled the tarp off of his own bike and exclaimed, "Perfect!"

It wasn't quite as long or as high as Rude's magnificent beast was, but Reno's bike was still larger-than-average. It mirrored the curvature and glossy finish of Rude's bike, making it similar enough for them to be recognized as partners whenever they rode together, but the similarities ended there. No chrome graced this bike's frame; instead, it was painted a deep crimson, the color of pooled blood, and was licked by flames of brighter scarlet along its chassis. Even the seat was made of rich red leather. Reno grinned like a teenager given the opportunity to see what lay beneath his girlfriend's blouse – an experience he'd never had before, as none of his girlfriends, including Yuffie, ever wore blouses – and mounted the bike, testing the handlebars and feeling them conform almost magically to his grip. He checked the dashboard; in addition to the usual readings and gauges, there were several mystery buttons that were all dying to be pushed.

"Hot," Yuffie said.

"Oh yeah." Reno tapped one of the buttons. Twin plates of crimson popped off of the rear chassis near the hind wheel, one on either side, and each slid smoothly back to reveal a rear-facing flamethrower. "I gave him real exact specifications. These babies won't flash-fry me, but they will toast anyone within twenty feet of my tailwind."

"What about the undercarriage?" Rude asked. "He mount anything like my rocket launcher there?"

"'Course," Reno replied. "Nothing quite as powerful, just a Mini-Arclite cannon that Tseng had in the trunk. I'm sure he won't miss it."

Yuffie blanched. "Tseng kept an Marclite in his trunk? Why?"

Reno shrugged. "Tseng's Tseng, and Tseng does as Tseng does. Or at least that's what Elena says. I don't really care, just that I'll probably be paying him back for the Marclite on top of his car. It's worth it, though. Rude does a wheelie and blows up half a city block; I do a wheelie and put a round the size of your head through anything in my way."

"Won't the recoil send you flying?"

"It'll kick my bike off of its back wheel and slam my front down pretty hard, but Grandpa Souta designed the suspension to take the impact and keep me steady. A couple uses and I'll be blasting away happily without any trouble."

Shaking her head, Yuffie gave a short sigh and said, "Boys."

His expression hovering somewhere between bliss and hysteria, Reno turned to Rude and said, "So, partner. Wanna take a spin through the city before we go shopping?"


There was a great, incessant pounding in Makoto's dream. It was a pleasant dream, a simple dream: he was sitting under the shade of a tree with his family and Rei, and they were simply enjoying each other's company. He didn't know what they were discussing or if they were talking at all; their very presence was comforting.

Then the pounding started thundering out of the sky, and Makoto leapt to his feet to confront its source, but nothing revealed itself until –

Makoto woke abruptly, startled out of his dream by the knocking on his chambers' door. "Come in," he called.

He'd fallen asleep on the couch in front of the television. How slothful. The set was still going – right now there was some animated show on about a half-demon and his producers' frustrating inability to admit that the show had jumped the shark a long time ago and ought to be cancelled. Squeeze some more life out of the franchise, dammit, put in a couple filler arcs before the final curtain call.

The leader of the Shinsengumi peculiarly empathized with the show today. It kept on going, even though its protagonist was an unpleasant prude and the main villain was the master of the plothole generator – he wouldn't stay dead. Makoto felt the same way, stretched too thin for his liking and being forced to face something that wouldn't stay dead because everyone loved it. The thought of all Wutai falling prey to vicious isolationism and anti-foreign sentiment snapped him out of his reverie as Shijin entered with a gold-bordered envelope.

"Message for you from the Pagoda, Boss. I think it's from Lord Godo."

"Thank you. Stick it on the coffee table, I'll look at it later," Makoto said.

"Sure thing. Have a good sleep?"

"Yes, I'm quite refreshed. Call me if anything comes up."

"Will do, Boss." Shijin deposited the envelope at the indicated location, nodded, and disappeared from the room. Kicking back a bit, even though he was already comfortable, Makoto vaguely reflected on the division of the Shinsengumi. You had Shijin's lot, who'd been with Makoto for a long time and knew he was a man just like them. They called him "Boss." Then you had Kosuke's lot, young and able and very green, who were awed as hell by Shiranui-ryu and thought Makoto was no less than some kind of goddamned demigod – strange wording, but fitting. They called him "Commander."

His cell rang, and the gang leader picked up. "Makoto here."

"It's Rei. Grandpa Souta just woke me up – we got a letter from Lord Godo asking us to attend the Hancho game tonight."

Makoto's brow creased. "You sound perky for having only gotten a few hours' sleep."

"What are you talking about? I got here at two in the morning and now it's nine, a good seven hours' sleep. You're the one who overslept."

"Well, shit. I got a letter, too, though that's to be expected – and I'm glad Lord Godo wants the two of you to come. After all, it is fairly important to your futures."

"You should probably call Jobs and tell him where and when," the geisha added, though her tone rang of distaste. "Reno wants him as an ally, so I think you should probably let him in on this."

"Reno's decision, not mine. If it were up to me I'd gut him for trying to hurt you. If Reno wants Jobs there, he can call and tell him about the time and place himself."

A short pause; Makoto could see in his mind's eye Rei shrugging, the movement sort of sloughing down her neck through her shoulders, terminating in a neat little twirl at the start of her forearms. "If you say so. That is sweet of you, though."

"Thanks. Should I meet you at your place?"


Karsk knelt before the shrine he'd had set up in the common room of his condominium. Behind him, his troops were assembled. All the weapons had been unpacked and ready, they had their dispersal orders in case of a riot, everything was in preparation. He'd already given them their pep talk yesterday, but before he went to the Hancho game that evening – a letter had arrived saying six o'clock in the back room of the Scarlet Monastery – he wanted to do something.

The Sub-General was not religious, and neither were any of his men. Living in a world where you slaughtered mercilessly or were mercilessly slaughtered yourself, you tended to become disillusioned about lofty ideals like religion and the divine plan. The man displayed in the shrine had not been religious, either, at least until he'd started plans to become a god.

But that really wasn't who Karsk wanted to address this afternoon.

"General," he finally said aloud, and felt more than heard all the men behind him stiffen up a bit, trying to come to attention in the kneeling position – an awkward task, to say the least. "I've already told my men that we're going to uphold your last command, that we're going to protect the city. None of us are particularly spiritual or religious; we don't truck with that, because it tends to be layered falsehood around an informational opiate. But some things have a ring of truth, despite whatever your beliefs may be."

Karsk paused and listened for any rustles behind him, heard none. The men were completely silent and reverent, just as committed to this and to honoring the General's memory as the Sub-General himself was.

"I remember, after the war, when the occupation began, you led us in services for the dead. You were the single most practical person I've ever known – to you, spilled blood was rust on your sword, not a soul transcending the mortal plane. But you still spoke reverently, as though our dearly departed comrades could really hear you, and it made an impression.

"As you once honored the valiant dead, so do we now honor you. It's been a long time, and we've had false starts along the way, but tonight everything comes together. That much we're sure of. We're ready to defend this city against anarchy, against total chaos. We're ready to fight and die in your name, a name now universally despised for what you tried to do. But we know that it wasn't you, General, who did all those things. The man we honor today and the one we'll die for tonight is the one who led us through the night into Wutai and brought us victory, vindicated us and validated our existences."

Murmurs of assent rippled through the gathered ranks, and Karsk did nothing to discourage them. This was as much for them as it was for the General, after all.

He concluded, "We'll fight for you, and all that you stood for: a civilized existence, an end to the chaos, safety for both the conquerors and the conquered. Your ideals will guide us in our struggle and pull us through the long night to see the dawn."

Karsk saluted. "Sir."

Behind him, his men did the same, the sound of rustling cloth and the faint thuds of hands against foreheads ringing out in the silence. "Sir."


Reno and Rude had torn up downtown Wutai for a while, enjoying the thrill of shooting down streets at nearly two hundred kilometers an hour. Reno was also enjoying the feeling of Yuffie holding onto him for dear life, pressing herself up against his back. He'd have slowed down if her gleeful expression hadn't told him that she was having just as much fun as he was.

Eventually, though, her motion sickness started to get the better of her, and Reno called it a day for reckless driving. "Time to suit me up."

Now they were in La Boutique Exotique, some Gongagan chain of high-class clothing stores that had recently rooted itself in Wutai. Business was apparently poor, and not only because nobody in Wutai really favored Eastern suits; the isolationist sentiment coursing through the town hadn't abated much, even after Reno's speech, and La Boutique Exotique had been dealing with it for a couple weeks now.

Reno stood before a full-length mirror, critically examining himself in it and fidgeting uncomfortably at the collar he wore. Meanwhile, Rude stood by stoically, brushing invisible dust particles off of his umbrella, and Yuffie alternately shook her head in mock shame and held her face in her hands.

Fashion was not Reno's department. He'd decided that if he was going to show up at this Hancho game dressed in a suit that wasn't mussed and crinkled, it was going to be a flashy one. He was going to make an impression, dammit. So he'd walked in, looked around, asked to see what the proprietor had in the back, and had picked out a zoot suit.

It was black, mostly, featuring a motif of vertical stripes that alternated between matte black and glossy black, making him shimmer when he moved. The trousers, tightly cuffed at the ankles, were much larger and looser throughout the leg. The coat was long, hanging down below his waist level, with wide lapels and heavily padded shoulders that flared out a good inch beyond Reno's own and made him look much broader. On his feet Reno had black, shiny, pointed shoes, and beneath the suit jacket he wore a white, collared and buttoned shirt. He also wore a white tie, with a single turquoise stud several inches beneath the knot to match his eyes.

"Reno. No," Yuffie said.

Reno turned and then did a little pirouette, snapping his fingers to a tune that only he heard. "I like it. Makes me stand out."

"You're not Gongagan or Mideelan or from Costa Del Sol. You're whiter than slate marble."

"Stands out against my skin."

"People will beat the shit out of you for wearing that."

Another insouciant grin, followed by a bring-it-on gesture. "They sure as hell can try. I like this suit, and it's what I'll show up wearing tonight. What do you think, partner?"

Rude raised his eyes from his umbrella, scanned Reno up and down, then asked, "Do they have another one?"


They returned to Yuffie's house with a pair of zoot suits in tow. Reno had offered to get Yuffie a dress, but she said she'd be given a ceremonial betrothal gown.

On the floor underneath her mail slot, there were three gold-bordered envelopes.

Picking one up, Yuffie ripped it open and dumped out a formal letter of invitation addressed to Reno, inviting him to a Hancho game held in the back room of the Scarlet Monastery at six o'clock that evening. "It's for you," she said to Reno, nabbing the other two. "These two should be for Rude and me."

Reno inspected the letter and laughed. "Perfect. I'll call up Jobs and tell him to get inside somehow and we'll roll."

Yuffie stared at him. "You're excited about this, aren't you?"

With a small shrug, the redhead replied, "Why not? Life-changing event, high possibility of some action… I'd say that's pretty exciting." He looked at his letter again. "Esteemed Mr. Reno, you are cordially invited to a soirée… Heh. Soirée. I love it. So, sugar. You ready to go, or d'you want to pick your own poison at the last minute?"

Pulling Reno into a hug, Yuffie whispered in his ear, "If I didn't trust you, Reno, I would have tried to figure a way out of this myself. But I'm leaving it all to you – I think you're motivated enough."

Withdrawing a pace, Reno arranged his expression into one of gentlemanly benevolence and gave her a scraping bow from the waist. "Mr. Rude and I will endeavor to deliver you from this most unfortunate fate, m'lady."

She snorted. "Fairy."

"Sorry," Reno laughed. "Dunno where my head went. Lemme put it another way: anyone who tries to marry you besides me is getting intimately acquainted with my prod. That better?"

Yuffie nodded and then impulsively pulled Reno back into a hug, grabbing Rude and pulling him in as well. "Thanks, guys."

"You're welcome," Rude said, crammed between Reno and Yuffie's arm, his umbrella pointing outwards so it didn't poke anyone. "We'll take care of everything. Right, partner?"

Reno winked. "It's a date."


A voice...

"Come one and all to the soirée

Where the rich look for a good lay

To cut events of their poor day

And feast on proles for the entrée.

-----

"Come one and all to the soirée

Where sycophants come laugh and bray

And killers watch the cabaret

Stacking victims like bales of hay.

-----

"Come one and all to the soirée

Where all your needs are met with 'nay'

Where, when you want to get away

Men with guns request simply, 'Stay.'"

...and then impatient silence.